


Hanging by a Golden Thread

by ElGato



Series: The Great War [2]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics), Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman (Comics)
Genre: American Gods Inspired, Gen, Violence, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElGato/pseuds/ElGato
Summary: Diana's lasso has always been trusty and the most effective against her enemies. She recounts the realization that it can be used in a different way towards her friends.





	Hanging by a Golden Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Short that follows the setting of the movie, but is not canon for obvious reasons (obvious being I haven't seen the movie yet), so very minimal spoilers here.
> 
> Please be aware before reading that this short contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Not recommended for those who prefer sunshines and unicorns.

He had landed in No Man’s Land, stranded as the battle around him waged on. I was distracted yards away, dealing with an Ares empowered Duke of Deception. The Duke was known for his cunning, not his wrath or skill. Even so, his patron had no qualms about giving him the tools to stand against me in a one on one match.

Black, thunderous clouds. Fire in the sky from gas being ignited by flamethrower platoons and tanks. It really did feel like a war made for Ares.

I had the Duke in my grasp, bound by my lasso. But it wasn’t enough. His heart was committed to Ares. He would not see truth no matter how much it was revealed to him. He shook it off, cast it aside into the murky battlefield where mortals were tearing themselves apart below. Soldiers who once had no hesitation in offering a hand to a downed and incapacitated enemy now sought each other out to destroy one another.

An errant squadron of Austrian soldiers was the first to be upon the injured pilot. In the mud, rain, and darkness they beat him with fists, guns, and hammers. With each blow, he made a jagged noise, akin to the yelping of a dog being attacked. The captain of said squadron, riled up by the action and the frenzy of ruthless war, found my lasso glinting in the dark dead field and seized it.

The soldiers lifted Steve up to his feet, hands grabbing at his jacket, hair, and arms, continuing their violent assault, rain and blood spraying with each strike.

The captain hauled over my misplaced lasso, tied a loop and wrapped it around Steve’s throat, yanking his head back, pulling him to the ground. The noose tight, he was dragged through the mud, the soldiers all eagerly grasping at the rope, wanting a piece of this forbidden spectacle.

He cried out into the night, the anguished weeping of pain and panic, I can almost hear him in my head. It’s the only sound I can imagine being heard at the moment. That and maybe the rain. Though I wasn’t there when they strung the rope up by the tree, pulling him up by the throat.

I know the exact location on my sacred lasso where his bleeding and muddied hands clawed at its noose in desperation. My weapon gave me the truth of death at that moment, not glowing, but dark as the sky, taught as he violently swung, writhed and kicked.

They told me he died gasping my name, bugged and bloodshot eyes upturned to the heavens as his last breath was strangled from him and he went still. They did not lie to me. They knew they couldn’t. They were his friends as well as mine. They knew the death of warriors. But even they were struck by how lonely a soldier could die when he was hanging from a tree by an umbilical cord of cold dead absolute.

For all those I had saved, he was one that I couldn’t. No matter how much he cried and roared as  _ my  _ golden noose tightened around his neck, I could not hear. I was occupied at the time bringing down the Duke, regrettably using my sword and bracers. However, he wasn't going to stay down for long. He would return. And Ares will be looming over him.

How I wished it all ended there. According to the very people who recounted this monstrosity to me, as my stalwart guide rocked limply in the rainy wind, the lasso began to seek truth in the living. Its cords gleamed gold as the men holding the noose began to finally see. They saw the truth of their actions.

The fuzziness in the captain’s eyes reflected the gold and with a blink, shedding tears, reality hit him. He hadn’t killed a man in combat. This was murder. Senseless and hopeless, even more than the war itself. He let go of the lasso, backing away, staring in pain at what he and his squadron had done.

He pled with his Lord for forgiveness before pulling out his pistol, sticking it in his mouth and blowing the back of his head and helmet clean off in a wash of red.

I was thankful that it was rainy and dark when I finally could witness the terror, and all I could see was the limp silhouette against the creeping moonlight. The shadows made it so I could not see the extent of what they did to my...friend, my companion, my unwitting brother-at-arms. I could not see what they did to a man I had once hoped would be a paramour during my journey into a new era.

Now all that was gone.

The now captainless squadron laid themselves at my feet, crying and begging for forgiveness. I did not hear them. I paid them no attention as I saw him be lowered to earth, the creaking of his weight against my lasso unbearable to listen to.

My allies--his allies, in an attempt to preserve his dignity covered his body with coats and cloaks, wrapping him in them like a shroud. 

We sent his body on a boat back to his home country to be buried. I longed to board that ship as well, bring his body to whatever family he may have had--if he had any--, and lay him to rest, sending him off on his way to Hades.

But I had to stay. The war was here. Not over where Steven Trevor was born.

I don’t think I ever gave him a proper goodbye. Something that still causes grief in me. It all happened so fast, and it felt wrong to mourn over his corpse that still had my golden lasso digging into his throat.

The only goodbye I could give was in London when the British superiors honored his sacrifice by placing him on a “Hero’s Wall” in London Square, next to other men who paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country. 

Like me, he entered a war as a volunteer. Long before his own home country formally decided to be involved. He did it out of pure will to see humanity return to a state of peace. We both wanted to save the world, and he died at the hands of the very people he wanted to save. That should’ve cheapened the memorial they gave him, but it didn’t. It showed gratitude, the knowledge that even some sacrifices are senseless, but shouldn’t be ignored.

After all these years, I hold no grudges against those who killed Steve. After years of reflection, Steve could’ve been anyone, any poor pilot that crashed that day in No Man’s Land the result would’ve been the same. No point in being vindictive towards those who held less spirit and will than my allies.

Let the wrathful hand out the punishments. And wrathful I am not.

My lasso, the tool used to hang my friend, is still at my side, still trustworthy, still true. Not unlike him. His soul is gone, but to this day I feel it in the rungs of my lasso, his spirit, forging onwards. Just the way I should.   
  
Just the way I will.


End file.
